AN: I am not the original author of the story below my goal is to gather West Wing stories from around the web and have them in one area so that they don't get deleted. If you are the original author and would like me to remove this story I will.

TITLE: Event Horizon

AUTHOR: Ryo Sen

SPOILERS: Noel, general season two story arcs.

SUMMARY: "I didn't wonder that."

DISCLAIMER: These characters belong to Aaron Sorkin, John Wells Productions, and Warner Bros.; I am making no money. Dammit.

THANKS: To Jo, as always, for her unwavering support, even while dealing with her own personal Tara Scully. ;)

*Warning: Mature themes.

Event Horizon Ryo Sen

I've been thinking about this a lot and I've come up with a theory. It's a bit complicated, but let me see if I can explain it coherently.

God, my hand hurts. I think it's still bleeding.

Anyway, I've been studying physics. Well, not so much studying as reading about it a lot. Donna would call it obsessing. In fact, she has called it that.

But it's only been since the shooting. I like knowing how things work, so I can understand *why* things happen. And understanding leads to acceptance. So it's frustrating to me that I can't accept the events of That Night.

It's a little cold in here. Drafty. Must be why I'm shaking. I really need to do something about that.

So my theory-and bear with me so that I can explain fully-my theory is that I'm dead.

Not in actuality. I'm still breathing, even though each intake of winter air zeros in on my scars, leaving me feeling like I inhaled tacks.

My heart is still beating, after being dissected, reassembled, and shocked back to life.

My synapses are still firing, although I would swear that bullet did some rewiring on its way through my chest. I have the most random thoughts sometimes. I can't seem to control it no matter how hard I try. The slightest noise makes me jump, and sometimes... Well, sometimes That Night comes flooding back at the most inopportune times. Like in the middle of a Christmas concert-Goddammit.

My heart is pounding already.

I was trying to explain my theory, the idea that I'm dead. There's something called the multiverse theory that posits that instead of one vast, unique universe, there are myriad universes existing simultaneously. I'm a little hazy on the question of *where* these other universes are; I mean, is it like a timeshare condo-while we sleep, the multiverses come out to play? Or maybe there are innumerable dimensions, apportioned out to each multiverse. I'm not a physicist. I really have no idea about the details. My point is that if there are many, many universes, there are also copies-clones?-of us all.

Can you imagine? Countless Joshs, maybe one who works for President Hoynes. Or Professor Lyman charming the socks off of his students at Georgetown. Hell, maybe I'm even a movie star somewhere.

For sure there's a universe where I died in the fire that killed my sister. I hope to God that I managed to save Joanie at least once.

It is freezing in here. I really shouldn't leave that window like that. My hands feel like ice. I need to get up and fix it.

Where was I? I don't remember. Let's consider this universe for a minute. What do I have here? Personal, professional, financial, and emotional chaos. A year ago I would have answered differently; funny how near-death can open your eyes to life. And I am so ever-loving sick of hearing how lucky I am to have survived. It was critical, they say. You could have died.

Maybe I *should* have died.

I mean, what's the point of my presence here? What does *this* Josh have to live for? Let's take these one at a time: Personally, I can't tell if anyone even likes me anymore, let alone cares whether I live or die. I know I've been a grade-A asshole lately. I can't help it. I have this... this rage inside and I don't feel enough compassion for any of my friends-my former friends to spare them. I have screwed things up royally with everyone I used to care about.

Professionally, I have a job that many people would die for. Okay, poor choice of words-I'm feeling a little altered already. Anyway, I used to care about this job more than anything. If I were to sum up my job in a few words, I would say it is a non-stop argument. Now I can't seem to muster up the moxy to fight at all. Not even with Republicans.

Financially, I owe the insurance company $50,000.00. I don't have $50,000.00. I'm not going to have $50,000.00 unless I sell my car, my condo, and move in with my mother. And the sick thing is this is money I owe for life-saving medical procedures; if I had died, this would be someone else's problem.

Emotionally, I'm enraged. Just angry. For a long time after the shooting I was wrapped in some sort of emotional cotton. And I knew that just outside of the cotton was pain. Lots of pain. Too much pain. So I stayed there as long as I could. Worked pretty well for a while-I think I had almost everyone fooled. I was the Old Josh-witty, sarcastic, and cocky. But the sarcasm turned to cruelty because I could no longer see the lines between humor and pain. I have no lines-I only have pain.

Of course, the layers stripped away somehow, and left me here, vulnerable and raw. I have no good emotions inside of me-no love, no joy, no laughter, no pleasure. Everything is drowned out by this anger. Rage.

I feel strange. My head is...

I hurt. And I hate. It's not enough that they killed my grandparents. They have to kill me too. And they succeeded.

Wait, I'm having trouble making sense now. My head is starting to spin.

I need to explain.

I need to explain to Donnatella.

Donna's not here. But that's okay, because this Josh doesn't need to be here, either.

Get it?

It's simple. There are other Joshs in other universes who are happy and healthy and not angry and hurting. They'll be fine. They can still live.

This Josh is collapsing. Like a black hole.

Black holes weren't always black holes, just like I wasn't always dead. Black holes start out as stars, bright and glittering and happy. But then something happens to the stars, and they become too dense. They collapse under the weight of their own gravity.

I think I'm collapsing under the weight of my own gravity. My own pain.

I'm collapsing into myself. If I'm not here, I won't hurt anymore. And there'll still be other Joshs.

I don't know why I'm laughing. Joshs-sounds funny.

I'm so cold. Is that what black holes feel like? Complete absence of heat.

Wait-I broke the window. I can't leave that like- God, I'm dizzy. Twirling and twirling down towards the hole.

First I have to fix the window. It's not right to leave it like that for somebody else.

My legs-I can't move really well. I have to get to the window. Can't do it. I need help. I need Donnatella to help me. I have to be careful not to suck her into my black hole life.

Black holes have this line called... I forget what it's called. But there's a line that demarcates the point of no return. After any bit of matter crosses the line, it can no longer escape the black hole. It accelerates faster and faster towards the hole, and even the light given off by the bit of matter can't escape the greedy gravity of the black hole.

That's why Donna has to stay outside the-the border. The point of no return. I can't remember the word for it. She and her amazing light have to stay away from me.

But I want to talk to her. I need her help. I'm gonna call Donna and she'll come help me fix the window before I go.

The phone is so far away. It's on the table next to my drink and the empty bottle. I'm crawling along the couch, but I can't maneuver well. I fumble a bit, but manage not to drop the phone. It's really hard to control my muscles when I can no longer feel my limbs.

Dialing is a complex process, and I'm amazed I remember her number. "Hello?" she sounds groggy. I wonder what time it is. I think time slows down the closer you get to the-the edge of a black hole.

"Donna?" My voice sounds funny.

"Josh?"

"Donna."

"Are you drunk?" She sounds worried now.

"Nah," I answer. I swear I can feel my body shrinking. "Took s'm pills an' now I hafta fix th' window."

"What?" She's loud now. "Josh, what did you say?"

"Window," I repeat. The room is spinning and I have to close my eyes. "M'tired."

"Josh, stay awake!" Yelling. Words from far away. "I'm on my way."

There's a beeping-she hung up.

The phone tumbles out of my hand and I'm crying and I'm so scared. I can't feel anything anymore.

Am I inside the border? The edge? The point of no return? What's it called?

Why did Donna hang up?

Sirens.

God, no.

Sirens again. I don't want to get shot. Please.

Please, I don't want to die.

Someone's shouting, now.

Over here-I think I was shot.

It's dark-where are the streetlights?

I hate sirens.

It's so dark down here. Is the light already gone?

I remember now. The point of no return?

It's called the event horizon.

THE END

This story is dedicated to Sean Patrick Moyer, whose smile I still miss. Wherever you are, Sean, I wish you great company, fine wine, and the constant accompaniment of Tori Amos.

Note: I know this isn't exactly Holiday fare, but I don't argue with The Writing Place when it shows itself. This piece, in case you're curious, was sparked by the comment from Stanley that Josh must have wondered if he were suicidal, too, and Josh's reply of "I didn't wonder that." I was absolutely expecting Josh to continue, saying something along the lines of, "I knew it."